Where We Came From
It Started With a Wake-Up Call.
Before the farm, I lived behind a screen.
I worked in tech. I gamed hard. I carried an extra hundred pounds on a frame that was already tired. I smoked too much. Sat too long. Woke up winded and went to bed wired. My back hurt. My chest ached. My days blurred. But I kept going—because that’s what the world tells you to do. Keep producing. Keep scrolling. Keep disconnecting from anything that feels like real life.
But what finally shook me wasn’t my own wrecked health.
It was realizing what kind of life I was modeling for Abri.
She was watching me. Watching what I ate, what I skipped, what I avoided. Watching me cough, zone out, drag through each day. And one morning, I looked at her—and I just knew. I couldn’t let her think this was normal. That this was it.
So I didn’t set out to “lose weight” or “get fit.”
I set out to get free.
In 2020, I quit smoking. Had a tumor removed. Hit rock bottom and started digging out. I worked over 100 hours a week—driving rideshare before dawn and long after dark, on top of my full-time tech job. I got brutal with my spending. Paid down every cent of debt. Rebuilt my credit. My only goal? Buy land before I turned 45.
Not for a dream.
For a life I could actually live.
Homesteading hit me like a freight train. Not the aesthetic kind. Not the soft-lit cabin vibes. I’m talking about the dirty, exhausting, calloused version—livestock underfoot, tools in hand, rain-soaked boots, no backup. I’d grown up on a farm, but I never thought I could do it alone. Turns out, I could.
So I taught myself. Soil science. USDA policy. Herbal medicine. Rotational grazing. I studied like someone who’d been starving for this her whole life—because I had.
That first year was hell.
The man who offered me land turned out to be a test I didn’t see coming. But I passed anyway. Because I had to.
The truth is, the farm I was looking for didn’t exist yet.
So I built it.
Not on a turnkey property. Not with inheritance or a trust fund. I built it with scraped knuckles, cold mornings, and a refusal to quit. I built it for Abi. I built it for me. I built it because I wanted a life I didn’t need to numb myself to survive.
And now, here we are.
Not at the end of the story—
Just finally on the right page.
Leave A Comment